


Part time jobs and full time handsomes

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley has an essay due on Friday. He needs help. Luckily, the part-time librarian is great help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Out of all his family, Stanley thinks he's the most surprised by his sudden college acceptance. After stumbling his way through graduation, Stanford had encouraged him to apply to colleges of his own. To get him off his back he did: local colleges and some universities, hiding them under his mattress for a week before finally sending them off while doing a solo grocery run.

He didn't think any more of it, tried not to think any more of it, until Pops came home with slit open envelopes and the his usual stern face.

_"Listen boy," his father had said, laying the letters addressed to him on the counter. Stanley gulped, looking at the return addresses, the bright stamped logos and the fancy waxed seals. He was glad sixer wasn't here to witness this. "Your brother's already got a full ride to West Coast Tech and as far as I'm concerned, we don't need to be spendin' any more money on your two's education."_

_"Yes, sir." Stanley said. It was funny how filling those applications filled him with a sense of dread yet this was erasing dread and replacing it with even worse hopelessness. He didn't even get to try._

_"That's why you better not be wasting our money boy." Filbrick said._

_"Pops?" Stanley asked, raising his bowed head. His eyes darted to the counter where the letters lie and his father's head. Filbrick nodded. Without a second thought, Stanley ripped into the already open letters._

_He only filled applications for a few schools, most of them community colleges. Stanley's eyes darted to and fro as he shuffled the letters and to his surprise found that he got accepted to four of the five schools he applied for. He even got accepted to a university. His fingers crinkled the thin paper, imagining how he was going to break the news to sixer that he wasn't the only son in the family going to college._

_"Waste a single penny," Filbrick said, breaking Stanley from his glee, one sharp finger pointing at Stanley's chest, "and I will personally see to it that your working on the docks until you pay me and your mother back. You hear?"_

_"Loud and clear Pops." Stanley said, nodding and trying not to wipe at his father's spittle on his face. When he was gone he would, but for now, attentiveness was key. "I promise, I’m not gonna waste it."_

-and that was how, or rather  _why,_  Stanley was standing outside Backupsmore Library. He needed to prove to his family he wasn't some useless schmuck destined to scrape barnacles off the docks. Taking a deep breath, and coughing from all the smoke some hippies were conjuring with their cigarettes, Stanley walked through the front doors.

Thankfully, the scent of smoke was free from the inside. Stupid hippies.

The library is large. It should be, seeing as how many essays the professor's assign on a weekly basis, but this is larger than even Stanley can handle, and he's been following Stanford to various libraries for most of his life. No way is he gonna find the book by the time it's actually due. Shelves and shelves of books tower over him, ladders stationed every now and then to help the poor soul that has to reach a book at the top shelf. Study tables interspersed between book shelves, the tables themselves hosting mismatched chairs, of rounded and rectangular, wooden and plastic. There were beanbags and a rug carpet near the front but most of them seemed occupied by people with tye-dyed shirts and long hair. The scent of coffee overwhelmed him along with that dusty book smell and Stanley was reminded of a certain six-fingered brother across the country.

Stanley let out a heavy sigh. Better to get this over with, and hey, if he got a good grade on this essay, maybe his old man would ease up on the calls. Stanley snorted. Yeah right.

"May I help you?" Someone asks and Stanley turns right, where the circulation desk is. Now aware that he's been standing there for a good few minutes, Stanley shuffles on his feet and goes to the speaker. The guy is skinny, a bean pole with small, circular glasses, a large nose, and a smile that screams polite.

"Yeah, uh, you know where I can find-" Stanley brings his hand up to his eyes, " _To Kill_ -" Stanley starts and then stops, bringing his hand closer. " _To Kill a Moo-"_  The words on his left palm are messy at best and he mouths the words. " _To kill a Moobird."_ He says aloud, nodding to himself "Yeah, that sounds right."

The guy, the librarian or whoever, hides his mouth behind his hands but they both can hear him as he snorts. "I think you meant,  _To Kill a Mockingbird."_

 _"_ Yeah, that." Stanley says with a flap of his hand, the tip of his ears turning red. "Do ya got it or not?"

"I'm afraid not." The guy says, not even bothering to check the large filing cabinets behind him, no doubt stock full of card catalogues. "The last one was checked out hours ago."

"Damn it," Stanley curses, pounding his fist on the circulation desk. There's a bunch of turned heads, a few fingers over shushing mouths, and Stanley rolls his eyes. "Thanks anyway," Stanley murmurs. Inside his head, he prepares the carefully worded plea that would get him the least amount of berating for waiting this long to buy the course books. It wasn't his fault that he thought borrowing from the library would be cheaper. He just didn't account for an essay to come  _already,_ and it seemed most of his classmates had the same idea- there was nothing for it, he'd just have to take it like a man.

Of course, there was always the  _five fingered discount_  option but if he got caught it could go into expulsion territory...

Luckily, librarian guy calls out a, "Wait!" His shoulders hunching when the library patrons shush him. He whispers a soft, "Sorry." back, but by then everyone else is already turning the pages in their books, pencils scratching against paper.

Stanley stops from his departure, his hands automatically patting his pants. He feels the bulge of his wallet in the back pocket and turns to the librarian with confusion. There's a copy of  _To Kill a Mockingbird_  in his left hand and he says, "You could borrow my personal copy. It's a little dog eared but you could use it as long as you return it after you're done."

Bingo.

Stanley swaggers back with a smile on his face, eyeing the guy's striped collared shirt for some kind of nameplate but there isn't one, so he asks, leaning his arm on the counter. "What's your name?"

"Fiddleford. Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket. Part time librarian and full time Mechanical Engineering student." Fiddleford says, thrusting out his hand between them.

Stanley didn't notice it before but Fiddleford has a southern drawl to his voice, but not the kind that makes him sound stupid like some hillbilly on TV. Fiddleford's accent suits him, suits his intelligent look, like instead of being a dumb hick, he was a cultured adult. If that made any sense.

"Nice to meet'cha Fiddlesticks." Stanley says, shaking his hand with strong pumps. "Name's Stanley Pines. Part time slacker, full time handsome." He plucks the book out of Fiddleford's other hand and knowing he'll never get anything done in his dorm with his disgusting hippie of a roommate, Thistle; he plonks himself into a spare beanbag, just a few feet away from the circulation desk.

Where he reads nothing for about a hour and stares at Fiddleford from the safety of his book.

Okay, it's not like he isn't trying. He reads a few sentences, maybe even a few pages, but none of it sticks. Instead he's too busy looking at Fiddleford as he works the desk: helping people find books, notifying overdue books, searching the filing cabinets, his fingers skimming the cards and smiling -a smile that could knock a man flat down on his ass- triumphantly as he finally got the one he was looking for...

It shouldn't have been as interesting as Stanley apparently thought it was, yet there he sat, staring at Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket. ' _Oh boy_ ,' Stanley thought,'  _have I got it bad.'_

Stanley gulped and buried his head back in the book, trying to at least look busy. He was open on page ten. He was open on page ten and he didn't remember a lick of any of the previous pages. Well, if he wasn't gonna work, he reasoned with a mental shrug, he might as well get back to the view. He peered over the top of the book but Fiddleford was gone, replaced by an older, stern looking woman with a gray bun pulled tight against her scalp and pulled against her old lady wrinkles.

Stanley looked back and forth but Fiddleford was nowhere in sight. And maybe for the better, the paper was due in five days and still Stanley hadn't read through the text once. He sunk back into his beanbag, trying to focus on the words on the page but disappointment made it hard to read.

"Was there any reason why you were staring at me?" Fiddleford's voice comes from behind him, out of nowhere, right when he started back from page one.

And Stanley does not scream. Stanley does not let out a high-pitched scream in the middle of the library, the book flying out of his hands as he flails and sinks into the beanbag so that he's almost swallowed whole, his beat up sneakers kicking in search of ground. He does not scream and he does not flail and the book he did not throw did not hit Fiddleford on the head on the way down.

None of that happens and so of course everyone turning to stare at them, including the stern library with thick eagle glasses, is a total overreaction. Because none of that never happened, Fiddleford better stop telling people that's how they met because IT IS A LIE-

Ahem.

After  _not_  screaming like a banshee and being  _not_  shushed by everyone in the library, Fiddleford babbles. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you. Are you alright? Do you need help up?"

Stanley, bent in half and limbs akimbo just waves his hands and Fiddleford helps him up. He coughs, ears and face and neck deep shades of red and jokes, "I meant to do that."

Fiddleford nods, and even a toddler can tell it's a coddling act but Stanley doesn't comment. They stand and stare at each other, Stanley shuffling to hide behind Fidds because the librarian lady's looking at 'em and Stanley can live without scary librarian in his nightmares.

Only when he doesn't exactly have to crouch down to hide does Stanley notice the difference in inches. "You're taller than me." He blurts out. He looks down and scowls, "And you're not even wearing platform shoes. Why are you taller than me?"

Fiddleford blinks. "I am?" He stands straighter, turning around so they're face to face and stepping closer until they're almost nose to nose. Fiddleford squints at the top of their heads while Stanley doesn't know where to look. He settles for Fiddleford's open collar, highlighting pale skin and a nice adam's apple. He tries not to inhale too deep, the smell of motor oil and windy streets taking home in his lungs, so alluring-

Fiddleford hums, and Stanley's eyes snap open- Oh gosh he hoped he wasn't making a weird face- and Fiddleford steps back, as if not aware of the thinning air between them. Which was good. Great, even. Stanley lets out his breath as casual as possible, his heart beating way too fast for having done no exercise.

"So, did you want your book back or somethin'?" Stanley asks, bending down to get the book that dropped on the floor.

"No, actually," Fiddleford says, tugging at his collar,"I came here to ask why on jersey's shore you've been staring at me for the past hour. Do I got somethin' stuck on my teeth or somethin'?"

Stanley pauses, gets up a little too fast and defends, "I haven't been staring. Who's been staring? I haven't been staring!" Stanley crushes his urge to whistle.

"I mean is it the big nose or...?" Fiddleford gestures to his own nose and lets out a self-depreciating laugh.

"No, no, not at all. I-uhh," Stanley says, "I have this thing, where I can't focus for long and sometimes I stare at space-" The lie rolls off the base of his tongue at a breakneck pace, as they always do, and he couldn't even stop it even if he tried. Well, at least it's not a complete lie, but still- he winces, thinking of how stupid he sounds and how Fiddleford will think he's stupid but instead, Fiddleford puts a hand on his shoulder and says,

"I understand." Fiddleford gives a guilty grin of his own, "For the life of me I can't do anything before noon unless I got three cups o' coffee in me. And that's just ta do basic math! Here," Fiddleford says, pulling up another beanbag and settling it close to his own, "let me help you. Maybe I can get you to focus."

 _'I doubt that_.' Stanley doesn't say aloud. He stands over Fiddleford who squirms in his chair, trying to find a good position. "Are you sure?" He asks, "I mean what about your library work?"

"I clocked out ten minutes ago, now come sit down. I've read this book dozens o' times, I'm sure I can help ya with a simple book report."

Dazed, Stanley sits down next to him, their heads coming together to read one book, their knees brushing as Fiddleford's southern voice takes him to Monroeville, Alabama.

They're only a few pages left when Stanley's stomach starts to grumble and the clock on the wall signals dinner time.

"I think that's enough for today." Fiddleford says, getting up and stretching. His back cracks and his knees pop but he doesn't look discomforted, in fact, there's a small smile on his face as he turns to Stanley.

"Thanks for the help." Stanley says, genuinely glad that his day turned out like this despite having to be in the library for longer than he would've liked. "I probably wouldn't have understood half the stuff in this book if it weren't for you; and so quick too."

"Don't say that. You would've understood the material just fine." Fiddleford says, and coming from him, Stanley somehow knows he means it. He...doesn't know how to feel about that but it's okay because Fiddleford asks, "When's the essay due?"

"Friday." Stanley says with a grimace, "Which means I got four days to write a ten page essay, typed, double spaced, with no white-outs or the professor's gonna take off points."

Fiddleford winces. "Well if ya need any help, I work here from ten to three on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Sometimes Saturdays and Sundays for a little extra cash." Fiddleford paused for a second, then dug into his shirt pocket only to produce a ballpoint pen. "Do you have any paper?"

"Uhhh," Stanley does not, in fact, have any paper. He thought it would be better to get in and out of the library as quickly as he could and maybe start his essay elsewhere. A lazy thought, now that he looks back on it.

His eyes dart around and he looks at the book in his hand. It's well cared for, no stains, few notes and even fewer so called dog ears. He shrugs and instead offers his other arm. "It's not long is it?"

Click. The ball point comes out, revealing red ink.  "Just my dorm's phone line. Call if ya need any help, okay?" Stanley tries not to shiver at the feel of Fiddleford's hands on him,  at the feel of cold but smooth ink gracing his skin. Fiddleford steps back when he's done and smiles at him, clicking the pen closed, "So I'll see you later?"

"Yeah for sure. It's a date!" Stanley says, and then his eyes widen and his mouth is opening and closing. "I mean-"

There's a nice blush on Fiddleford's face and he turns his head down, adjusting his glasses with a soft look on his face, half shielded by his hand. Whispering, he says, "I'd love that." Then walks backwards, turns on his heels and heads for the exit, leaving Stanley alone with  _To Kill a Mockingbird_  in one hand and his phone number on the other.

Stanley bit his lip, and at a sedate but stiff pace, followed Fiddleford toward the exit, ignoring the librarian and her disapproving eyes. He waits a couple of seconds until Fiddleford's back left his field of vision and then lets all his excitement bleed out in the form of little half-jumps and heart-filled squeals, fingers and toes curling from sheer euphoric pleasure.

The library is a great place.


	2. Chapter 2

The library is a terrible place.

It's late at night, the evening sun having since set and the library is, for the most part, empty. Stanley sits in the typewriter room, head banging against the wooden table. In front of him the typewriter sits mockingly, the paper half jammed into the paper table; blank.

"Just two more pages." Fiddleford says consolingly. Empty seats tucked into tiny tables surround them, the last guy who was here having left some time ago. Fiddleford sits besides Stanley, his long legs knocking against wood as he tinkered with some spare parts. Stanley props his elbows on the table, grabbing his hair as he grit his teeth.

"I hate this." Stanley says with a final thunk against the wooden table.

"You were the one who waited this long."

"I know. I just-" Stanley lifts his head, his hands lifting to cup his pounding head, "I just wish there were some sort of faster way to go back a space." He looks toward the trash sitting between them, full of his mistyped essays and a few bags of toffee peanuts.

Fiddleford only hums before taking a notepad out of his breast pocket to jot something down in familiar red ink. Stanley wants to ask what he's writing but he's been writing on that thing on and off the whole day and he  _really_  needs to finish these last two pages.

Straightening in his seat, Stanley cracks both his knuckles. Time to get serious. His fingers hovering over stubborn keys, thinking...thinking...thinking.

"I can't think of anything."

"Then maybe we need to take a break." Fiddleford says, still screwing something together. Stanley watches as, without looking up, Fiddleford gets one of those tiny little screws and the flathead, bringing them together to mess with  _something_. Stanley doesn't know what the individual bit was, or what the thing would turn out to be in the future but it looks impressive.

Stanley turns in his seat, letting his long legs finally stretch before resting them on the top of Fiddleford's desk.

"Get yer feet off the table Stanley."

"What? It's not like anyone eats here and we're all alone." He leans back, crossing his arms behind his head and releasing a gaping yawn. "It's fine."

Fiddleford's lips twist and his nose wrinkles but he doesn't say anything.

"Hey." Stanley says, tapping the tip of his shoe against Fiddleford's arm. "What'cha working on?"

"Just a project. I'll show it to you when it's done." Fiddleford says, pushing Stanley's feet off the table. Stanley lets them fall with a thump. It becomes silent, the only sound coming from Stanley catching himself as he leans far too back on his chair and FIddleford picking and setting down tools.

Finally, Stanley asks, "So do you wanna make out?"

Fiddleford almost chokes on the screw held between his lips. He spits it out and turns to stare at his boyfriend of five days. "E-excuse me?" He whispers, his eyes darting around the empty room as if someone was hiding under one of the low tables, ready to accuse them of sodomy.

"Relax, no one's here." Stanley says. Even so, Fiddleford's eyes still concentrate on the door. Stanley, of course, takes that as a sign to get up and lock it. He takes one of his crumpled essays from the trash and rubs it against his knee to straighten it out before holding it up to the door's small window. "Hey, got any tape in that toolbox of yours?"

There is tape. Fiddleford twists the small roll of tape between his fingers and looks at Stanley's hand, stretched out and waiting. His eyes glance between the tape and the hand, his teeth nibbling on his lower lip. With a jittery hand he throws the roll and Stanley catches it and with two rips he covers the window.

"Now the fun can begin." Stanley says, swaggering to Fiddleford's makeshift workstation only for an upheld hand to stop him.

"Paper first. Smooching later."

His shoulders slump and he groans, "Is this how all our dates are gonna go?"

"You consider this a date?" Fiddleford asks, eyebrows raising.

"I mean..." Stanley shrugs, "It's night, we're together," Stanley slides closer, " _alone_."

"Because you have a paper due in fifteen hours and you begged me to help you." Fiddleford says. He turns to his project, connecting wires for a few minutes before he stops. He eyes the typewriter pushed against the wall.

"Hey, you don't think the library would mind if I cannibalized one of their typewriters, do ya?"

Stanley, who so far only has the word,  _The,_ on his paper, turns to stare at his boyfriend.

"Huh?”

"No, you're right, that's impolite." And with that Fiddleford returns to his tinkering. Stanley scratches his head and then turns to his own work, occasionally asking questions and flipping through Fiddleford's copy of  _To Kill a Mockingbird_. Dings and squeaks fill the room as they let themselves get lost in work.

Eventually Stanley stops himself just a few sentences short from finishing.

"I'm sorry."

Fiddleford gives Stanley a quizzical look.

"I'll take you on a real date soon, I promise. I just need to finish this paper first.

Fiddleford's look turns into a soft smile, "I can't wait."

To which Stanley shoulders hunch, pink creeping on his cheeks, looking vibrant in the too bright lights of the room.

They continued on working for a few more minutes until Stanley leans back, asking, "Where would we even go for a date?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it's not like we could just go to Mikey's Pizzeria on date night and ask for a table for two." A silence descended upon them as it sunk in. The society they lived in didn't exactly encourage relationships like theirs, in fact it did the exact opposite. Vicious words and tyrannical rants, a deep seated poison that seeped into their skin and poisoned their view -

Stanley tipped his head back so his neck hit the top of his chair. Crummy rules. Never did anyone good.

"Well," Fiddleford says, playing with the cuffs of his long sleeved shirt. "We could always go to the movies? I mean, it's not strange for two men to go to the theater right?"

"Great idea Fidds!" Stanley says his head popping up, "Any movie you wanna watch?"

Stanley smiles brightly at him, his perfect white teeth only accounting for a short amount of his handsomeness. The rest of it was in his dimples, the strong line of his jaw, the twinkle in his brown eyes, all adding together for a solution of total hunk.

And Fiddleford's boyfriend. Somehow he thinks real life got it incorrect; pairing a positive with an, at best, neutral but if the science was wrong he didn't want it to be right.

Stanley's still looking at him. Fiddleford blurts the first thing that came to mind, " _Grandpa the Kid."_

Stanley's smile, if anything, widened. "Good choice. So next Saturday then?"

"Yeah! Yes, I mean- I'd love to."

"Sweet." They grin at each other, a giddy feeling spreading between them and sweeping their tiredness under the rug. Stanley turns around, typing a few words and then he was ripping the paper out of the typewriter, bundling all his papers together to staple and then place to the side. That done, he turns back and scoots closer to Fiddleford. Leaning forward, he grabs Fiddleford's seat and pulls him closer with a nice squeak.

"I'm done." He says, "And I seem to remember something about smooching."

Fiddleford braces himself on Stanley's arm. The first kiss is brief, a simple touch of lips. The second is a little more long, but still achingly sweet, a little more open lips and panting breaths. Fiddleford tasted like metal and Stanley had the taste of toffee peanuts, a combination that neither thought they would taste together.

Before they could go into their third kiss though, a voice called out, making them both jump.

_"Warning: The library will be closing in ten minutes. I repeat, the library will be closing in ten minutes. Any patrons must leave or fear being locked in the library until opening time tomorrow."_

The intercom stops with a horrible static noise that had them covering their ears. When it's quiet in the room again, they let their hands fall away their nervousness slowly dissipates, leaving their heartbeats to return to normal. Stanley coughs, bending down to prop back his chair that fell.

"Come on Fiddleford, I'll walk you to your dorm." Stanley says, gathering his boyfriend's tools and dumping them in his bright red toolbox unceremoniously. Fiddleford winces at the loud noise. "Carry my papers will ya?"

Stanley hefts the bulky toolbox with ease and is already headed for the door. Fiddleford swips Stanley report off the desk. "Stanley you don't have to carry my toolbox. I know it's heavy-"

Stanley backs up into the door, holding it open for Fiddleford with his back. "Shut it. I'm your boyfriend and if I wanna carry your heavy ass toolbox for you, I will. Now c'mon."

Fiddleford hurries through the door frame and considers arguing but settles for a quick peck on the cheek. Though he made sure to run ahead and open the library door for Stanley. When Stanley kisses him in return, a short peck on his chin, he's glad that the person at the desk is too busy turning off the lights to see.

The walk to Fiddleford's dorm is quiet for the most part. The brisk night air and yellow street lights make for a lovely walk and Fiddleford wondered if they had time to do more night walks before Winter settled in. As they approach Fiddleford's door Stanley stops them with a hand on Fiddleford's shoulder. They stand under a broken streetlamp; a dark spot between circles of light.

"Stanley?" Fiddleford asks.

"Sorry, it's just - I think I need a li'l more to tide me till Saturday." He says before leaning up to place a tender kiss on Fiddleford's lips. He backs away before it could be too much more and Fiddleford follows him, not sure how Stanley could just steal a quick kiss and act like it was nothing.

"Goodnight Stanley." Fiddleford says at the entrance to his dorm, hugging his toolbox to his chest. The porch light seems too loud, other college students lingering around despite the evening hour.

"Goodnight to you too." Stanley says, his report sticking out of his pants pocket. They smile at each other briefly, the tingle of their shared kiss still fresh on their lips. They couldn't share a kiss but that didn't seem to matter with next Saturday just a week away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea where this is going.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's a short chapter.

Four months passed in memorable dates and deadlines until winter break was just around the corner. Stanley had been studying with Fiddleford for Finals but they were taking a break; Fiddleford wanted to show him something.

"So what did you want to show me?" Stanley asks, popping his back and stretching in his chair. In front of him books full of highlights and scribbled notes lay in a piled heap. Stanley lifts the glasses from his nose and rubs at his eyes, trying to blink himself into focus.

"I want you to be my guinea pig." Fiddleford says, lifting a large suitcase onto an empty part of the table, still managing to trap some books under the large case. The table creaked in warning.

"This ain't gonna be like the time you asked to take blood from me is it?" Stanley asks as he stares at the thick suitcase with apprehension.

"No. No, I just want you to test out some of my new inventions. I figured, if you can't break it, then nobody can."

"Heh. You got that right. Alright," Stanley rubbed his hands together, "show me what you got."

Fiddleford clicks open the suitcase, lifting the top and Stanley leans forward. Fiddleford refused to talk about the suitcase , wouldn't even let him touch it. It must've been something big. Stanley's eyes widen as he devoured the sight of...

"Is that a typewriter?" Stanley asks, trying not to let his disappointment show but distinctly failing at said task. Fiddleford goes to heft it up but Stanley beats him to it, lifting it onto the desk with ease. Now usually, Stanley would attribute such ease to his hard-earned muscles but even he has to admit the typewriters is lighter than any Stanley's ever lifted. It's also a lot smaller than a normal typewriter which is still pretty big but definitely more manageable.

"I made a few adjustments and I wanted to see how they'd work." Fiddleford says with a shrug. He gestures to the thing. "Give it a try."

It looks like a regular typewriter but instead of the circular keys Stanley knew and used, there were square buttons all bunched up together. Stanley takes his time inserting the paper and then he raises one big palm and slaps the buttons so hard they let out an alarming clack!

"What was that for?" Fiddleford asks in alarm, his arms shooting out to hold his precious invention.

"I thought the whole point of this was to see if I could break it."

"Stanley, for now, just operate it as you would normally, please."

"Right." Stanley says, his eyes squinting at the page over his square glasses. So far all that was on the page was "dgzr;'fjoi," a beautiful set of letters, if Stanley said so himself. When he thinks he's got his fingers positioned right in the small keyboard he contemplates what to type. Then he has an idea.

The smoothness of his typing surprises him. It didn't take much pressure for the key to register his pushes and in return his typing is faster. The usual clicks are quieter too, the only real sound coming from when he pushed too hard on the buttons. It didn't take long for Stanley to type out his message and he sat back and proudly let Fiddleford read over his shoulder.

On the page is the sentence, " _Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket is a cutie."_

"This works really well Fidds." Stanley says, watching as Fiddleford's cheeks turned red.

"Delete this." Fiddleford says and then he's reaching over, pressing a key and-

"How'd you do that?" Stanley asks, sitting straight in his seat. He watches as a few clicks the papers shifts left and starts clearing ink. " _Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket i_ " It read.

"Backspace button." Fiddleford explains, his hand hovering a more rectangular button with a left facing arrow and the helpful caption of BS. "I kinda took some ideas of yours, if ya don't mind."

"Nah it's fine. Just means I can type this out."

_Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket is the best boyfriend ever and he's smart and int-_

Stanley grins as Fiddleford started backspacing with hard clicks. Stanley tries to type while Fiddleford backspaces at the same time and still, it worked well, the motions almost automatic. In the end it ends up reading,

_Fiddleford Hardon Mcgucket is a specwonovful sta lovslgknq;_

"This is amazing!" Stanley laughs while Fiddleford blocks the keys with his lanky arms so Stanley would stop typing. "You made this all by yourself?"

"Yes." Fiddlefor says, his cheeks flushed and his hair a bit of a mess. "It's helped on some of my reports and I thought, if you ever need it, you could borrow it."

"Ya know what we should _really_ do?" Stanley asks with a snap of his fingers. At Fiddleford's questioning look Stanley says, "We should start selling these!"

"But there's only one." Fiddleford points out. "And I don't know if I have enough time to make some more..."

"Then we should rent it! Think about it, students would kill to not have to buy white out and this is so much faster and easier to type with. It'd sell like hotcakes!"

"You really think people would buy it?"

"Sure." Stanley says, grin easy and hand on Fiddleford's shoulder. "An' I'll be your sale's rep. Trust me we'd be getting orders left and right."

"I'll be honest I've never thought of selling my inventions before, or at least, not this early in life."

"So?" Stanley asks. "We can start now. I bet we could sell these things for one hundred- no- two hundred bucks easy."

Fiddleford's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, I don't know 'bout all that. It's still a prototype."

"Well when you do decide to sell 'em. Call me up." Stanley says with a nudge and a wink.

"I will. In the meantime I've got some other inventions I wanted you to try out." Fiddleford says, pulling something else out of the suitcase. "You were a pretty big inspiration for some of these." Fiddleford says as he passes over a wristwatch with glowing red numbers and four different little buttons on the side. Stanley takes it in his hands and looks it over. It reads 3:56 PM. Stanley's own watch reads the same.

Stanley's breath held as the number changed from 3:56 to 3:57 without missing a beat. Vaguely, he remembers complaining about the small roman numbers on his wrist watch that made it hard to read without his glasses. And Fiddleford listened.

Overcome with a fluttering heart, Stanley looks at the empty bookshelves surrounding them and dips down to give Fiddleford a quick peck. When he pulls back his grin is large and his eyes are sincere. "You're amazin', y'know that?"

"Well, I have great inspiration." Fiddleford quips, smiling back.

"Sweet talker."

"Cutie pie."

They both grin, insufferably smitten. They spend the rest of the day going over finals and Fiddleford's inventions. By the time Winter Break comes around Stanley has a brand new wristwatch on his hand and Fiddleford has a plethora of well-meaning kiss and hug coupons.

"See ya in two weeks." Stanley whispers. They're in public so they can't kiss but Stanley has a hand on his shoulder, squeezing intently.

"See ya." Fiddleford says in the same breathy whisper.

Half way on the ride home, Fiddleford still feels Stanley's hand on his shoulder, as warm as a fresh kiss.


End file.
